


Switch Your Partner Round And Round

by peterqpan



Series: Harringrove Works [11]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Body Swap, Happy Ending, M/M, Mentioned sexytimes, Rapid relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterqpan/pseuds/peterqpan
Summary: The second the nurse was gone, the bed next to Steve squeaked, and the curtain was yanked aside to show him his own face, bruised, cut, and weirdly shaped outside of a mirror.  “Shut up, Harrington,” it hissed, and Steve made a noise in the back of his throat, like a dog.  “Shut up.  If you say anything, they’ll lock us up, cool your jets—”Steve tried to talk again, and made a perfectly reasonable squawk this time.“Shut up shut up,” hissed his face.  “They won’t believe you, we’ll never get out of here—” It yanked its arm, and Steve registered it was handcuffed as well.  That thought was reassuring, and Steve drank the water when the nurse returned and pressed the straw between his lips, falling asleep content that the thief that had stolen his face wasn’t going anywhere.The car crash with Billy Hargrove has some unexpected results--for one, Billy thinks Steve rescued him for Reasons, and wants to kiss.  Steve is reluctantly warming to the attention, and to top it off, they're...each other.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Harringrove Works [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003
Comments: 60
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thei/gifts).



> Okay, news to anyone who usually reads my stuff! There's no sex in this one, so my line-scene-breakers indicate POV SWITCHES, ooooo, never done that before!

Steve’s head _pounded,_ and he squeezed his eyes shut against the flickering light and heat on his face. The hard plastic of the steering wheel dug into his cheek, and as he groaned, something slid off his hair and fell on his leg, then clinked to the floor. He blinked to see _flames,_ and jerked his head up, then swore at the blurring lights and rush of pain in his skull. He blinked his eyes again, registering Robin next to him in the passenger seat, her head lolling against the seatbelt. The Camaro they’d t-boned—the Camaro with Billy Hargrove in it—had _burst into flames._ Steve squinted over to see Billy jerk back against the seat, then started scrabbling at the inside of the driver’s-side door, and Steve pushed his own door open, staggering towards the Camaro. 

Billy looked up, his eyes widening, and Steve yanked once against the door, then again, harder, the heat from the engine block crinkling the paint on the hood. The seat _next_ to Billy was on fire, around a lidless bottle of Everclear. The handle wouldn’t work, and Steve had to put a foot next to Billy’s door to yank it open. Billy yelled, holding his arms up defensively and coughing black smoke in a cloud around them, but Steve grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him out just as the whole passenger seat of the Camaro burst into flames in the air flow from the door, throwing them both to the ground. Billy rolled over him as they fell, hacking the smoke in huge gouts— _at least the monster’s gone, in this heat,_ Steve thought, his brain fading out again as the night as the air filled with sirens, and the sky lit up blue and white.

When he woke again, he wished he hadn’t. Every part of him ached—his whole right side and hand were alternately numb or throbbing, his head hurt even worse than before, and his throat felt like he’d thrown up cement.

“Don’t freak out,” someone hissed, and Steve groaned, trying to swallow. 

He tried to move, and his wrist _clinked_ against something. He yanked at it, curling on his side, and it clinked again. Steve slowly opened his eyes enough to see he was _handcuffed to a bed,_ then shut them again against the shooting pain of the fluorescent lights.

“Don’t, stop it,” the voice growled. “Keep your chill, Harrington, christ. Sssh, they’re coming, keep your damn _mouth_ shut!”

Steve groaned again, wanting nothing in the world so much as water. He registered a shower-curtain noise, and squinted up, only to have a man in scrubs address him as “Mr. _Hargrove”,_ and ask him what day it was, and whether he knew his name. He tried to correct him, rasping out a “Haaaa...harrrr,” but the man realized he was _dying of thirst,_ and left to search for a cup of ice cubes.

The second the nurse was gone, the bed next to him squeaked, and the curtain was yanked aside to show him his _own face,_ bruised, cut, and weirdly shaped outside of a mirror. “Shut _up,_ Harrington,” it hissed, and Steve made a noise in the back of his throat, like a dog. “Shut up. If you say anything, they’ll lock us up, cool your jets—”

Steve tried to talk again, and made a perfectly reasonable squawk this time. 

“Shut up shut up,” hissed his face. “They won’t believe you, we’ll never get _out_ of here—” It yanked its arm, and Steve registered it was handcuffed as well. That thought was reassuring, and Steve drank the water when the nurse returned and pressed the straw between his lips, falling asleep content that the thief that had stolen his face wasn’t going anywhere.

The next time Steve awakened, he was still in the hospital. He stared up at the ceiling for a long while, waiting to hear someone say, “You’re awake.” Nancy, maybe. He set his jaw, telling himself not to hope for anyone else. 

No chairs shifted. No throats cleared, and Steve closed his eyes, smiling tightly at the knowledge nobody was impatient to find out how he was. He rolled his head to frown at the bed beside him, where what looked like _his body_ lay, and wondered again whether he _wasn’t_ awake. _I’m in a coma,_ he thought. _S’weird watching myself. Maybe somebody will visit. Try to kiss me awake._ He squished the oddly tickly pillow with his face, glowering over at his body. _Maybe nobody told my mom I got in a wreck. Maybe everybody forgot I was even here._

Just then, his body _snored,_ and Steve jerked, clacking the handcuff on his wrist against the bed rail. _Do coma, uh, coma people,_ he thought muzzily, _do people in comas snore?_ His body rolled over and curled up, flinging an arm over the edge of the bed—there were all his _moles_ on that dangling arm, and he thought indignantly, _how come I’m moving if I’m over here—_ and then he blinked when the brown eyes that belonged properly in his _mirror_ and not on _another person_ opened and blinked back at him.

“Harrington,” hissed the imposter. “You’re finally awake, jesus. Don’t _say_ anything, okay, they—they’ll think we’re _insane,_ we can’t figure this out any easier in a _mental hospital—”_

“Gimme hair back,” Steve mumbled, holding his un-handcuffed hand—it was full of tubes—up to block the weird person who’d stolen his face. “Ha! I can’ see you.”

“God fucking hell dammit,” the thief groaned. “Go back to sleep.”

“Thief,” Steve hissed, trying to pull his blanket up, and groaning. The other bed squeaked, and then his bodysnatcher tucked him in, and Steve let his eyes slide closed. 

When Steve awakened again, the thief was sitting up, and Robin was hugging him. Steve wondered whether he was having an out-of-body experience, until the thief stared at him over his shoulder, mouthing, “Who the fuck is this?!”

“I guess you’re too dumb to die,” she sobbed, hugging him again, and Steve snorted. The thief stared over at him, and made a kissy face, pointing at her head. Steve shook his head, wide-eyed, and drew his fingers across his neck, sticking out his tongue. The thief looked even more bewildered, pulling his arms back, and Steve wanted to laugh, but he’d just realized the tickly stuff against his face was _hair._

He lifted his extremely-entubed hand to squint at a fluffy curl of sun-bleached, chin-length hair. “...gonna _complain,”_ he mumbled. “Hospital putting _wigs_ on me.”

His body-snatcher started cackling, and Robin shot him a weirded-out look. “Sorry,” he wheezed. “I—I’m just—I think I’m still in shock,” he tried, and Robin nodded, ignoring Steve _entirely._

Steve wondered what else they’d done to him, and patted his face to find a _fake mustache,_ which he immediately tried to yank off, which _hurt._ “Ennnh!” he whined, as the guy with _his face_ that his best friend was _hugging_ laughed his ass off.

Robin left fairly shortly after, with a suspicious glance towards _Steve,_ like _he_ was the one stealing faces. 

“You’re so high,” the thief laughed, and Steve flipped him off.

He woke again to something hitting his face, and groaned. Something smacked into his nose, and he rolled his head away, curling on his side.

“Harrington,” his doppelganger hissed. “Wake up.”

“Nnngh,” Steve told him, and felt something prod his butt.

“Wake _up,”_ the thief said. “I told them to come back later, I said you had a _concussion,_ but they’re gonna want to know what happened—”

“Stole my face,” Steve told him, going to rub his own face, and finding the mustache again. “...what the hell. _You_ should be handcuffed. Stealing my face.” The end of his bed shifted, and Steve raised his head to squint up at his own face, attached to his own body, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. “Am I on...morphine or something? Am I dead...?” He swallowed thickly, blinking at the ceiling.

“Shut _up,_ come on,” the bodysnatcher hissed, then grabbed the IV stand, and tilted the chrome arm towards Steve. “Hopper lemme loose, he thinks I’m you, he’s gonna start asking questions— _look!_ Look at your face!” 

Steve looked at his reflection, mostly out of annoyance, to see... _Billy Hargrove’s_ face. Billy Hargrove’s mouth dropping open, Billy Hargrove’s hand grabbing the mustache Steve could feel on his own face. He sputtered. “What? No. That’s—that’s—no, that—shit,” he whispered, yanking at a handful of curls. “Need a _razor.”_

“Don’t you _fucking dare._ What do we tell people?” his face— _Steve’s_ face—asked, and Steve stared. 

_“...Hargrove?”_

Billy snorted a laugh. “Catch up, Harrington—” 

He cut off, because Steve had grabbed his nose. Steve turned _his own head,_ with Billy Hargrove inside it, to the left, and then the right, eyes narrowed. “How the hell,” he mumbled.

“Stop pinching by dose,” said Billy, with Steve’s vocal cords, and Steve yanked him closer by the head. “Mmmfng,” said Billy, crawling up the hospital bed as Steve’s thumb pressed against his lower lip. The room was chilly with air conditioning, and Steve warmed his fingers on Billy’s face as it reddened.

“What’d you do,” Steve whispered, wishing his brain wasn’t so fluttery with whatever was making his side and head hurt less. Billy braced himself over the bed, letting himself be pulled in close so he was doing a push-up with his hands on either side of Steve’s shoulders, and Steve realized something. “Wait, how come—” He squinted up, blinking. “How—how come _I_ haveta hurt, you set yourself on fire?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Billy whispered against his fingers, and Steve squished _his own face_ with both hands until Billy looked like a fish. His breath was warm on Steve’s face, stirring his borrowed mustache.

“Sucks,” Steve mumbled, staring into his own dark brown eyes. He surveyed his own moles, and the way the skin under his eyes squished up when Billy started laughing with _his face._ “...fuck you,” Steve sighed. He thought, then thonked their foreheads together, and Billy-in-his-body winced, snickering.

“Why’d you save me, anyway?” Billy whispered back, grinning away. “Walk up to a _burning car._ Pulled me out of a _burning car,_ Harrington—how long you been _wanting_ me—”

In a burst of insanity, Steve rolled his eyes and tried the next thing that came to mind. He was thinking along the lines of magic, and fairytales, and he grabbed _Billy Hargrove_ around the back of the neck to give him a firm kiss. 

He expected to get shoved, or hit, or maybe, hopefully, to _switch back_ to his normal body, like waking up a princess, or transforming a frog. What he did _not_ expect, and what actually happened, was Billy scrambling closer and _opening his mouth,_ turning his head and sighing as his tongue slipped warmly against Steve’s. He hummed, smiling, and Steve opened his _own_ mouth, the whole body he was in seizing towards the warm heavy bulk on top of him. He felt like every single cell was rushing an urgent message towards his dick, and when Billy pulled away, panting, Steve wheezed out, “Dude, I think your body is _gay.”_

“So’s _yours,”_ Billy hissed, flinching back. He took a deep breath, smiled, and leaned in to make Steve’s whole body go tingly and stupid again. “Wanted me so bad you hauled me out of a _burning car,_ Harrington—how long’s my picture been in your locker? You’re gay as _shit,_ who’re you pointing fingers at—” He ran a hand along the skin at the edges of Steve’s bandages, inside his starchy hospital gown. “You’re gay as hell, for me,” he mumbled, laughing shakily. “Saved me. Even after I kicked your ass, you—” He leaned in, pressing messy kisses along Steve’s hairline. 

The gentleness made Steve’s breath catch and his eyes sting, which didn’t help his argument any. “M’not,” he muttered. “We—we need to fix it, we need to—”

“Shut up, Harrington. Jesus, you’re freezing—”

Steve forced his tear ducts back into submission, squeezing his eyes shut, then opened them to see Billy Hargrove _laughing_ at him. 

“You _scared?”_ Billy asked, and Steve growled, lifting his head to meet Billy’s mouth so fast their teeth banged through their lips, and Billy grunted back in his throat, wide-eyed.

“Not _scared,_ I’m a _ninja,”_ Steve hissed, relishing the break from lying staring at the ceiling and counting his aches. “My body’s just gay ‘cause _you’re_ in it,” he informed Billy, who snorted, biting Steve’s lip more gently and letting it slide through his teeth. Steve groaned, closing his eyes and squirming against the feeling of rough hospital sheets against his dick. “Like fifty percent gay now,” he muttered. “S’weird.”

“What?!” Billy started laughing, and Steve tried to lift an arm to punch him, then pinched his side. Billy yelled _“Screw_ you, Harrington—” in his ear, and Steve snickered.

“‘Cause you’re gay,” he whispered, and Billy growled.

“Shut up, I’m—if I am, you are too,” he hissed, and Steve squinted back at him.

“It’s all you! You’re a hundred percent into me?” The math didn’t seem quite right, and Steve narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. “No, why’d you beat me up? Six...sixty percent? Thirty.” He wished Nancy was there to figure it out.

“I’m not—you’re—what have they _got_ you on—” Billy asked, propping himself up to squint at the IV. 

“If you’re only thirty percent into me, half of thirty is fifteen,” Steve told him, confident, yet disappointed at the size of the number. “...think maybe Nancy was fifteen percent into me too.”

“You can’t—that makes no—”

“I was hundred percent into her,” Steve announced sadly. “‘F we’d switched, that’d have been. More.” 

“You need me to find you a girlfriend, Harrington?” Billy raised his eyebrows, and Steve tried not to laugh, but he started _shaking,_ imagining _Billy Hargrove_ wandering around in _his body,_ shirtless and glaring at everyone, wondering why he didn’t get laid. 

“Pffffft,” he finally exploded into giggles. “Ow, oh my god. You just get laid ‘cause you look like _you—_ don’t—don’t look like—you’re such a _smug asshole_ —not a compliment—” 

“You just need tighter pants,” Billy told him seriously, his eyes crinkled with laughter, and Steve laughed harder.

“How do you _move,”_ Steve wheezed, rubbing the tears from his eyes on the pillow.

“You were lookin’, huh?” Billy mouthed around Steve’s jaw to his ear, breathing hot across the damp skin. “You kissed me first,” he whispered. He laughed as Steve shook his head. He looked weird, Steve thought, both eyes crinkled as he grinned, and he kept laughing. It was impossible to imagine Billy’s regular face that _delighted._ “You can’t lie to me now, Harrington, you gave yourself away.”

“I was just _trying something,”_ Steve told him, trying to breathe slowly. “Thought—thought maybe it’d work. We’d change back.”

“Let’s keep trying,” Billy whispered back, grinning. “‘Less you want me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare stop _now,”_ Steve growled, squirming. It was deeply weird to see his own face smiling back, so he closed his eyes. “S’like making out with a funhouse mirror,” he mumbled between pants. _Everybody makes out with awful people sometimes,_ he thought. _Doesn’t matter._

“S’hot,” Billy told him, laughing. His hands were warm in the hospital’s AC, and Steve arched against them. “Just admit it.” 

Steve fell asleep again with sweat cooling on his skin, his face and side warm against Billy. He woke as the warm weight shifted away, mumbling protests, and felt a soft kiss at his forehead. 

“S’alright, I know you love me now,” Billy whispered, laughing, and kissed his ear.

“Fuck off,” Steve muttered, squirming closer. He hooked a foot around Billy’s leg.

“Be right back,” Billy told him. “Never get rid of me now. You gave yourself away, _Harrington.”_ He squirmed to slide off the bed—Steve winced, gritting his teeth as the bed shifted—as the door opened, and twitched the curtain between their beds back just enough to hit his own bedsprings as the nurse pushed a cart alongside Steve’s bed. 

He stared at the ceiling, bewildered, as she changed his IV, offered to give him a sponge bath—he yelped a no, remembering the sticky mess dried on his stomach, and heard a muffled snort from the bed through the curtain—and then she tried to interest him in some Jell-O, and the laughter behind the curtain turned to snickering as he grilled her on available flavors. 

As soon as she left, Billy was half on top of him again, kissing his cheek and smiling into his face. Steve squinted his eyes against the warmth, trying to remind himself that the gentle hands feeding him Jell-O, cleaning jizz off his belly, and offering him sips of cool water were _Billy Hargrove’s._ The teasing, soft kisses, and offers to suck his dick were from Billy Hargrove, in his body, after Steve had rescued him from a burning car, and also he was _definitely going insane._

When Steve came to again, there was finally somebody in the chair next to his bed, and he squinted blearily. The chair creaked as they tipped back and thunked their shoes on the edge of his mattress, and he groaned in complaint.

“...so, heat,” came Billy’s voice, from his body. “Heat of the fire exorcised me. Should have been some pea soup.”

Steve was glad they didn’t actually leave scalpels around like in movies, because he wanted to stab Billy in his own foot. “Seats’re for _visitors,”_ he mumbled.

“Yeah, you’re getting so many of _those.”_ Billy snorted. “Your parents get in a wreck too?”

“Shut up,” Steve hissed, rolling his head to stare the other way, at the curtain. 

“You pulled me out first, though. Saved me when I was still trying to murder a bunch of kids,” Billy laughed. “They’re fine, though. I mean, it worked, they—they went home, I guess. The _sheriff_ told me.”

Steve took a deep breath, nodding. 

“That Robin girl says she’s fine, but I think she thinks you’re like...a spy? For the Russians? Or something?”

Steve started snickering, which _hurt,_ and he started coughing. Billy grabbed a cup of water with a straw and held it close enough to drink, but Steve took one sip and shuddered. “It’s _warm,_ you _spit_ in it, didn’t you—”

“I didn’t _spit in your drink,”_ Billy shot back, dropping his legs and the chair legs to the floor, and stalking out with the cup of water. 

“...fuck you,” Steve mumbled. _Probably they’re all busy,_ he thought. _With the fucking Russians. And the monster. And they don’t have time to hang around here._

Billy returned with the cup, and dropped in Steve’s visitors’ chair again, holding the straw to Steve’s mouth. 

Steve stared at it. 

“Rinsed it out. I let the water run until it was cold,” he said, nudging Steve’s lips with the straw, and Steve opened his mouth for a chilly sip, then kept swallowing, as his thirst hit his brain. 

“Dry air in here,” Billy said, tilting the cup so Steve was getting water instead of air. “Want some more?”

Steve stared up at him, stuck on the idea of asking Billy Hargrove for favors, or having to _thank_ him, or really...talking to him at all. “Why’re you here?” he asked, finally, and Billy laughed. 

“Shit," he whispered. "Uh. I know I—you—you _stopped_ me,” he said, tipping the empty cup back and forth so it rattled. “I pay my debts, _Harrington—”_

“Saved your life and I get a sippy cup,” Steve muttered, feeling cheated.

“I can’t go back and—and _fix_ shit,” Billy growled, the cup creaking in his hand. “I can’t—I tried shit, okay, I drank _bleach—”_

“Sounds like a good idea,” Steve sighed, and Billy kicked his bed—carefully, since it didn’t hurt.

“Piss off and—” Billy cut off, leaning his face in his hand. “Look, I _can’t fix anything,_ I can’t—I can’t _time-travel back_ and not show up at the Byers’, I can’t—do you _want more water,_ that’s—I can’t—”

Steve did, but he bit his lips together, feeling the weird scratchiness of Billy’s mustache against his lower lip. He glared up at the ceiling.

“Shit,” Billy whispered. “I can’t leave anyway, since I’m _apparently you.”_

Steve snorted. “Gimme my body back. Beat me up, almost killed my friends, stole my _body.”_

“...yeah, I know,” Billy laughed, lowering his head. “...I can’t—I know _sorry_ isn’t good enough, I don’t—”

"Look,” Steve told him, wishing he could sit up, “—that—that thing in your head, that wasn't your fault."

“Shoulda set myself on fire sooner,” Billy muttered. He glanced over, grinning. “Wouldn’t be having this problem.” He was kind of...hunkered down, picking at Steve’s blanket, and Steve blew air through his cheeks before speaking.

“Rather have _this_ problem,” he admitted, and Billy’s head jerked up. Steve stared back, cursing his own honesty, but Billy’s smile was small and shaky, and Steve couldn’t quite regret his words. “...you’re still a shithead, though,” Steve told him.

“I know,” Billy laughed again. “I—I’m—just. Sorry about—that night. At the Byers."

“Fffyeah,” Steve growled, getting his consonants in a frustrated jumble. "What the _hell was that?"_

"I was—I was pissed, and drunk, and—he said I had to bring her back. HAD to. He—it was—or else." Billy kicked the little cart, and it rolled to a stop against the curtain. 

"Or else what," Steve asked, his face hurting as he frowned. He watched Billy’s hands, clenched in the blanket, and Billy’s face, sweating in the cold air of the hospital, and reached out to squeeze Billy’s fingers. “What d’you mean, ‘or else’?”

"O-or else, I don't know!" Billy snarled, jerking back from Steve's hand, and Steve stared past him at the curtains, putting together Max _and_ Billy’s defensive growling.

“...okay,” he said, reaching out again, but making sure he waggled his fingers, and Billy saw. “Okay,” he repeated. “I mean, it’s _not_ okay, asshole, but—” he stopped, twining his fingers with Billy’s cold ones. They were shaking, and Steve rubbed Billy’s knuckles with his thumb, waiting for him to look over. “Okay,” he whispered. “Gimme some more water. Thanks.”

Billy stared at him, then down at the cup. “You—you’re just thirsty,” he whispered. He wasn’t _crying,_ but Steve recognized the signs—his voice was husky, and he kept taking deep breaths.

“Yeah, so get me some water, water boy,” Steve hissed back. “Work that shit off. You know how many cups of water it’s gonna take? You’re gonna be hauling water ‘til you _die—”_

“Jesus, okay,” Billy said, but his smile came back, wide and uncertain, as he slid off the edge of the bed. “Whatever you want. Be right back. You, uh, you want anything else?”

Steve tried to think of something outrageous to say, but finally just shrugged. “Tell you if I do. I’ll run your legs off.”

“Yeah,” Billy grinned. “Make me _work_ for it.” He winked, licking his lips as he slid through the door, and Steve’s dick twitched. He groaned, pulling the pillow over his face.

Steve opened his eyes next on Nancy, pushing the curtains back with a “it’s so _gloomy_ in here, let me—” She stopped when she saw him, her lip curling a little, and he wanted to tell her. “What’s he doing here,” she hissed at Billy. “Don’t they know what he _did?”_

“He’s asleep,” Billy told her, kind of mumbling.

Steve opened his mouth, and then saw Nancy’s mom, dad, and little sister as the curtain moved. Mike wandered in, crossing his arms. Nancy’s mom stared over at Steve, in Billy’s body—she looked sick, he thought, pale and sweaty, and Steve glanced at Billy, in _his_ body, who was staring at Nancy’s _mom._

“How’re you feeling?” Nancy asked, grabbing Billy’s hand, and he managed a weird grunt. 

“...fine,” he said eventually, and she nodded, firming her jaw for a narrow-eyed glance at Steve. 

“Nurse said your football career would be fine, Harrison,” said Nancy’s dad, punching Billy in the shoulder, and Billy stared at him. “I’m...I don’t play football?” he said, just as Nancy hissed “It’s _Harrington!”_ Nancy and Billy shared a moment, cocking their heads in confusion at Mr. Wheeler. Steve bit back a grin.

“Do you want a ride home, Steve?” Mrs. Wheeler asked Billy, who unaccountably reddened, and glanced at Steve. “We can drop you at your house. I bet you’d like a real shower!”

Billy widened his eyes, biting his lips together, then nodded. “Ye—yep. Thanks, ma’am,” he said, so woodenly that Nancy reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

Steve was so wrapped up in figuring out their weirdness he didn’t register Billy’s urgent stare, but he finally remembered and cleared his throat. “What, you gonna miss me, Harrington? Fuck off and let me sleep.”

Billy snorted, his eyes widening further as Mr. Wheeler promised to return after he was discharged, Mrs. Wheeler suggested they all celebrate his release at the diner with burgers, and Steve dozed off again, smug in the knowledge that Billy was about to have an incredibly awkward afternoon.

* * *

When Dustin finally escaped his mom, got his bike to the hospital, and found Steve’s room—despite people stopping him to ask if he was lost—Steve was gone. His bed was a mess, so Dustin figured he hadn’t gotten far, and shot a glance at Billy Hargrove in the other bed. He was grinning, for some reason, and Dustin wrinkled his nose.

“Where’s Steve?” he asked, and Hargrove’s mouth quirked. “Whatever,” Dustin hissed at him. “I’ll find him myself.”

“Henderson!” Billy yelled, as Dustin yanked the door shut, and Dustin repressed a shudder at the thought Billy Hargrove knew his name.

He (eventually) found Steve on the roof. “Hey,” he called, running up to lean over the railing next to him. He bumped their shoulders together, and Steve half stared, half glared, tossing a cigarette stub on the ground. Dustin rolled his eyes. “How hard you get hit on the head, buddy? I been meaning to talk to you about that. You know _who you saved,_ back there?” He reached up and knocked on Steve’s head, and Steve just narrowed his eyes, his fingers twitching. Dustin slapped Steve’s shoulder, trying to get his brain to engage. “That guy down there in the bed? He’s the one that _beat your face in_ at the Byers’, Steve. I know your shitty memory, but _seriously?_ Seriously. _Billy Hargrove?_ There are babies in this hospital that have _less oxygen_ ‘cause he’s alive, Steve, who’s the hero _now.”_

“What?” Steve asked, and Dustin sighed, letting himself drape over the railing. 

“Billy Hargrove, Steve. Nancy said he knocked you on your ass in gym.”

“I know who he _is,”_ Steve gritted out, and Dustin looked him over, wondering whether somebody’d already given him a hard time. 

“Jesus, take a chill pill, you had to be the hero, I know. Like Batman. Didja ever think, though, if Batman just killed Joker, he’d have saved, like, a _ton_ of people? You gotta think about these things.” Dustin grinned over, and realized Steve had his hands clenched, white-knuckled, on the railing. “Just some friendly advice, man. Don’t die trying to save the bad guy.”


	2. WWBD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Would Billy Do, Steve tried to think, imagining a WWBD bumpersticker. “...I don’t—he doesn’t fuckin’...hate me,” Steve protested feebly. “Probably?”
> 
> They get some things talked out, and confuse themselves some more. 
> 
> People who read my stuff--there's no sex in this one! The dividing lines are for POV changes instead of sexytimes, this time! =D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so, so much as always to bavzel, tbehartoo and susiecarter for betaing!

Steve jerked in his hospital bed as Billy slammed back into the room, stalked over, and braced himself over Steve’s face. “You saved me from a _burning car,”_ he hissed. “Even after—after I kicked your ass.”

Steve blinked up, the horny gay body he was in noticing the shine where Billy’d bitten his lip, and remembering how his muscles had felt, warm and heavy, pressing Steve into the bed. “Mrhm?” he grunted.

“I kept screwing with you,” Billy whispered, and to Steve’s bewilderment, he recognized the sound of his own voice trying not to cry. Billy leaned closer, grabbing a handful of Steve’s hospital-gowned shoulder. “You knew I—you knew I was trying to k—to kill those _kids,”_ he said in that shaky, raspy voice Steve tried to hide. “You _saved me,_ you pulled me out—”

“...wasn’t gonna let you _burn_ to death,” Steve whispered back, his traitorous borrowed body actually starting to tear up. He opened his mouth again, and Billy kissed him, clutching at his hair, and running a shaking thumb along Steve’s jaw. 

“Wanted me bad enough to climb out of your wreck and come over to mine,” Billy whispered, again, and a tear fell from his eyelashes. “Saved me from the monster, kept me from—” 

Steve made a startled grunting noise as their teeth clonked together in Billy’s urgency, and Billy sighed, slumping to bury his face in Steve’s neck. 

“The hell am I supposed to do,” Billy whispered, his breath as warm as the rest of him. “Wheelers are gonna drop me right at your door. Where the hell are your _parents?”_

“Where the hell are _your_ parents,” Steve shot back. “Just—just get me some clothes.”

“What am I supposed to say?! They’re gonna _know,”_ Billy hissed, lifting his head to prop himself up on an elbow. “Maybe if I just get in, get out. And come back here. I’ll be back in an hour or two. Don’t pine away without me,” he said, leaning in to kiss Steve’s temple—which was _unfair,_ Steve wanted to complain, having to resist the _one person_ lurking at his bedside, worried. 

“I’m not _pining,”_ Steve muttered, trying not to strain towards the hand tracing slow circles on his chest and stomach. “Not gonna... _asshole._ Why the hell.”

“You saw Billy Hargrove in a burning car and thought it was worth risking your life to get him out,” Billy whispered, leaning in for a slow kiss as Steve sputtered. 

Steve couldn’t talk for a minute, as Billy Hargrove kissed him and touched him and he _resonated_ with it, like the little hammer dulcimers at the toy store—kids grabbed them all day and played Christmas songs on them in July, and the dulcimers had no say in it at _all,_ Steve thought, grabbing the back of Billy’s head and angling him, the better to kiss away his laugh.

“Pulled me out of a burning car,” Billy whispered again, like he still couldn’t believe it. “I’m _that hot.”_

“Hotter on fire,” Steve mumbled nonsensically, and shoved at Billy’s shoulder. “Parents won’t be home. Bring me a fucking burger.”

“Can do.” Billy kissed him _again,_ and Steve arched into it, wondering in the back of his brain whether it’d still feel good, touching Billy, after whatever insanity wore off and they were both back in the right bodies, and Billy was just someone who he saw around town, sometimes, slamming people into walls. _If it’s just insanity,_ Steve thought, _why would I imagine Billy Hargrove is so good at kissing?!_

He woke again with a grunt of pain, as something thudded into his bed. 

“What are you _doing,”_ came Max’s voice, and Steve squinted blearily up at a middle-aged man with a tight smile.

“Waking him up,” the man said. “Wonder what his mom would think, her baby boy growing up to get in a car crash drunk, and wind up handcuffed to a bed. Maybe she always saw that in you,” he told Steve, who stared back at him, suddenly breathstoppingly relieved Billy was at his house, probably trying outfits. 

“What?!” he replied, glancing at Max, who looked away, swallowing.

“I hoped we’d get here soon enough to thank your Good Samaritan,” the man—it had to be Billy’s dad—said, shooting a glance at Max, who hunched her shoulders. “Takes some kind of kid to save someone like you.”

“Not _Max’s_ fault,” Steve protested, the only thing he could think of to say—Max shot him a startled glance—and the man turned back from regarding Billy’s bed to face him.

“You’ve got a lot to say all of a sudden,” he laughed. “You got liquored up and almost killed a bunch of kids, and you didn’t even manage to die right, did you? And now, you got a lot to say.”

“Shut up,” Steve told him, his vision going blurry. “What the hell is your problem? I could’ve died, and—and you—you show up and—piss _off,_ christ. What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

“Me?” the man laughed, as Max grabbed Steve’s arm, taking shallow breaths, but Steve wasn’t too worried about what the asshole would do, with nurses checking in on the hour. Billy’s probable dad stepped closer, leaning in like Billy did, with a similarly threatening smile. “What’s wrong with _me?”_

“Yeah, you, you asshole!” Steve shouted back, wincing as he braced himself up on his elbows to yell properly. “I’m gonna get my stuff and move out, jesus. As soon as I can move. What the hell?!” A tear dripped down his cheek, and he sniffled, wondering in passing whether Billy was so goddamned _mean_ to cover himself crying over every third sentence. “You’re my _dad,_ right?!” 

Steve glanced at Max, raising his eyebrows, and she blinked back, swallowing and nodding. Steve growled with incoherent rage. “You—you just—jesus, you _make a kid_ and then tell him he should _die?!_ Die yourself, asshole. Go to hell! Get out of my room!” Billy’s dad stared, his mouth open, and Steve narrowed his eyes. “I’m ringing for the nurse,” he gritted out. “Get the hell out of my room.”

Max sniffled, but he glanced at her and saw she was covering a grin, her eyes red and watery. Billy’s dad was immobile with rage, but between Max dragging at his arm, and the nurse showing up, he was pushed to the side, and when the nurse was done fiddling with Steve’s bandages, the man, and Max, had vanished. 

“Everything okay in here, sweetie?” the nurse asked, and Steve wondered how many people called Billy Hargrove a sweetie and survived. 

He took a bite of Jell-O as he considered—it was cherry—and stared into the cup. “You found me _cherry,”_ he whispered.

“I had them make it special, hon.” She beamed at him, and Steve beamed back at her, then registered why she had some misconceptions about Billy's personality. 

He cleared his throat. “Uh, th-thank you. Um, that was B—my dad. He said he wished I’d _died,_ so I, uh, I yelled at him.” It’d been weirdly satisfying, yelling at Billy’s dad.

“He _what?!”_ She spun to stare at the door. 

“It’s okay,” Steve told her. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go stay with my friend there. That pulled me out of the car.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, glancing worriedly at Billy’s neatly made bed. “How old are you?”

“It’s okay, his parents won’t mind,” he reassured her, trying to keep his mouth from turning bitterly downward. 

When Billy returned, Steve was pretty sure it was past visiting hours. “I couldn’t get away,” he whispered, knocking at the end of Steve’s bed, gentler than his dad. “Had to convince _the sheriff_ that Steve Harrington wasn’t pressing charges,” he said, lifting the blanket to slide in next to Steve, who watched, still disbelieving, as Billy Hargrove, in Steve's body, curled around him and buried his clean-shaven face in Steve’s neck. “Had to escape _Wheeler,”_ he mumbled. “She wanted to know,” he paused for emphasis, “—whether I was a _mindflayer.”_

Steve snorted. “Whether _you_ were? Why—”

“Well, you, right now,” Billy slid his finger between Steve’s wrist, and the handcuff. “Got the handcuff keys from the sheriff,” he whispered. 

“Well, uncuff me,” Steve hissed back. “I’m ready to stop pissing in a _bowl,_ dude.”

Billy shoved the keys into Steve’s hand, muttering against Steve’s neck. “...you’re just gonna book it, aren’t you. Shoulda handcuffed us together.”

“You—you’re not getting away that easy,” Steve snorted. “You think you’re done? You’re gonna help me take a shit, _asshole—”_ he told Billy, trailing off into a growl as he sat up, and his eyes watered with the ache in his lungs, and the scraping feel of the sheets and bandages against his burns. 

“Easy there,” Billy breathed, sitting up to uncuff Steve from the bed, and sliding an arm around his waist. “...you gonna make it? I can grab a nurse.”

“You can grab a bedpan,” Steve muttered, glaring at him, and Billy laughed. “You can fucking _clean_ my bedpans,” Steve told him, hissing into Billy’s warm, solid shoulder as the world spun around him after so long lying flat on his back. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Billy replied, steadying him as they inched towards the bathroom. 

“Screw you,” Steve mumbled, slumping on the toilet in relief. “...how come I gotta be cuffed? You were—you’re the— _Billy.”_

“You wanna cuff me to something?” Billy asked, and Steve went still, staring up at him. 

“Kinda, yeah,” he said, eyes narrowed, and Billy laughed, leaning in for a kiss and banging their teeth together as Steve shoved his chest.

“Get the hell out!” Steve smacked him away, feeling his face heat at the idea of Billy handcuffed to a bed. “Shut up, jesus christ, go away. Trying to pee, come on—”

“Tell me when to come get you,” Billy told Steve, leaving him alone with a really, really cold toilet seat. 

Steve’s hands—Billy’s hands—trembled as he grabbed toilet paper, and he glared down at their tanned, shaking fingers—first murdering people under the mindflayer’s control, now useless when he needed to wipe his ass. “Might as well cut ‘em off,” Steve muttered, wondering what it was like, watching from inside as your hands killed, or what it was like watching another stranger use them, the next day. He flexed them, and the punching joints were stiff. 

“Come back!” Steve yelled when he was done. “Get in here!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Billy called back, sliding back inside. He used Steve’s own eyeballs to roll his eyes at Steve, which seemed unfair. 

“Sorry I can’t give it back,” Steve told him, as Billy swore and yanked them away from falling into the sink. 

“What,” Billy muttered, sliding his arm around Steve’s waist again. 

“Sorry took your body,” Steve said, already exhausted. He turned to grab Billy’s shirt with his free hand, so they were chest to chest. “Got it back from the—uh, the...thing, and now _I_ have it.”

“Uh,” Billy laughed, turning them towards the bed like they were dance partners. 

“Promise I won’t murder anyone in it,” Steve told him, and Billy flinched, and took a shaky breath. “Keep it safe. Keep you safe.”

Billy tipped him back into bed, and curled alongside him. He took a breath like he was going to talk, then sighed. “Mmm.”

“Mmn,” Steve mumbled, relaxing into the warmth. “I mean it. I mean, I—I yelled at your dad,” he told Billy, grimacing, and Billy shot back upright, his nose thunking into Steve’s jaw. “You live with me now,” Steve added, rubbing his jaw, and hoping he sounded reassuring. 

“...what,” Billy mouthed, then cleared his throat, pinching his nose as his eyes went red and shiny. “He doesn’t want me back home? He threw me out. _Fuck.”_

“No, he—he didn’t.” Steve yanked at his still-handcuffed hand—in the back of his head, he thought Hopper could get on clearing Billy a bit _faster—_ and then raised the one full of tubes, squeezing Billy’s shoulder. “He didn’t, I—I, uh, I guess I...stole...you? I told him you’d live with me. Come home with me.”

“Jesus,” Billy gulped, choking on a laugh. “How can you like me this much. Love at—love at fucking—first sight?” He sniffled. “Shoulda kissed you in the shower. Wasted all this time.”

“Ah. Uh—uh, hum. Hrm.” Steve bit his lip, _liking_ it as Billy slumped against him again, pressing kisses under his jaw, and wondering whether he’d _still_ like it, when he wasn’t in Billy’s gay-ass body. Whether he’d have been _flattered,_ if Billy’d tried to _dance_ with him at the party, instead of being so...Billy. He had a deep, uncomfortable suspicion that he’d been hoping _anybody,_ ever, would be as delighted he existed as Billy was right now, and tried not to think about what that would mean, if they switched back and he didn’t want Billy’s callused fingers against his skin. 

Billy sighed. “It’s in case we can switch back, isn’t it,” he whispered, and Steve kissed his hair, squinting at it in the dark. 

“Nah, it’s—I mean, some, maybe, but your dad’s got—he shouldn’t _be_ a dad, if he’s gonna—the _hell did you do to my hair, Hargrove.”_

“Took a shower,” Billy breathed, laughing into Steve’s shoulder as Steve cupped the back of his head with still-shaky fingers. 

“The hell did you use, Ajax? Why’s my hair crunchy?!”

“I used the shit in the bathroom!” Billy laughed harder, sliding an arm around Steve’s waist. “The shampoo in the shower!”

“Which bathroom?” Steve asked suspiciously, and at Billy’s “I don’t know, the chintzy one,” he groaned until he ran out of breath. 

Billy snickered, squeezing him gently, and Steve swallowed back the guilt of letting someone think he loved them, and lifted his head to kiss the person who’d tried to kill him the night before and then crawled into bed with him hours later. Billy hummed against his mouth, and Steve could feel him grin. “My hair looks worse,” Billy whispered. “You been rolling around on it. You look like you got raised by wolves. S’all knotted...Tarzan.”

“So I’ll brush it later,” Steve said, shrugging. The fight with Shitty Dad Hargrove had worn him out, and Billy _wanted_ to lie on top of him, and breathe warm and damp against his neck, and Steve never, ever wanted him to stop. _No wonder Billy’s so goddamn thrilled,_ he thought. _After a lifetime of being Billy Hargrove in that house, he thinks somebody finally loves him._

“Don’t go out in public,” Billy muttered against his shoulder. “Wear...bag over your head.” He growled as Steve started snickering, and grunted into Steve’s shoulder, groaning. “Look like a _poodle._ You can’t _brush curls,_ you gotta—”

“What?!” Steve found Billy’s ear in the darkness, and grinned at the heat coming off it. He gave it a lick, and Billy laughed, lifting his head for a kiss. 

“Hey, hero,” he whispered against Steve’s mouth. “This what you wanted?”

“What?” Steve asked again, his brain comfortably blanketed away so he could doze in warm bliss, half-listening to Billy muttering in his ear. 

“This what you wanted so bad you yanked me out of a burning car?” Billy whispered, his forehead hot against Steve’s jaw. 

It wasn’t like anyone was going to find _out_ Steve hadn’t particularly wanted to rescue Billy, he thought, as his stomach clenched. It wasn’t like there was paperwork. He hadn’t shaken Robin awake, and told her, “I’m gonna get Billy out, so I can run him over again,” even if he thought she could probably guess. He lifted his entubed arm and squeezed Billy against him, kissing his hair, and felt like cheating spouses probably did, knowing there wasn’t concrete evidence against them, but also knowing any hint would break someone in half. “I kinda don’t want to change back,” he whispered, the best he could do, and Billy burst out laughing against his shoulder.

Sneakers squeaked outside, the door rattled, and Billy was off the edge of the bed and in a visitor’s chair before it creaked open. Steve was waiting for the nurse to come in, wishing Billy’d fix his hair—his _best feature,_ which was all flat on one side, from the heat of Steve’s shoulder—when _Max’s_ face popped around the edge of the door. 

“What the hell time is it,” Billy grunted, rubbing his face. “The hell are you doing here.”

Max stared at him. “What are _you_ doing here?!” she hissed back. “Go away!”

“He’s fine,” Steve told her, wishing he’d listened earlier, and he and Billy had come up with some kind of code. “He’s, uh.”

She pointed at Billy—to her knowledge, Steve—and made an irritated kettled boiling noise. _“Why is he here?”_

“I’m bringing him water,” Billy said, in Steve’s body, blinking big brown eyes like a dumb cow, and Max glared. 

_Stop it,_ Steve mouthed, and Billy batted his eyelashes again, opening his eyes wide and innocent. Steve huffed a sigh, rolling his eyes, coincidentally in perfect unison with Max. "He's helping—"

“I need to talk to my brother,” she hissed at Billy. “Buzz off.”

Billy stood, stretched slowly, and finally laughed as Max _shoved him outside,_ and Steve was left alone with a fierce little girl who thought he was her awful brother. He tried to think of Billy responses.

 _“Billy,”_ she gritted out, crossing her arms at the foot of his bed. “How’d you know who I was?”

“...what?” Steve asked, unprepared for that one.

“Look. I figured it _out,”_ she hissed, and Steve squinted at her, wondering whether she was weirder than he thought, or he’d just had too many painkillers to follow a conversation.

She pushed the curtains back, peering around, nodded, and shuffled a few inches closer. _“I know you have amnesia,”_ she whispered, and his mouth fell open. “You had to ask me _who your dad was,”_ she pointed out, counting off a finger, and he winced. She counted off another. “Steve _Harrington’s_ being nice to you. I guess you told _him?_ He _hates_ you! Didn’t he say?! He just, what, feels sorry for you now you don’t know who he is?!”

What Would Billy Do, Steve tried to think, imagining a WWBD bumpersticker. “...I don’t—he doesn’t fuckin’...hate me,” he protested feebly. “Probably?”

“You _beat him up,”_ she whispered, grabbing a chair and pulling it close. _“So_ bad. You kicked the _shit_ out of him. How come you—eugh. He’s _seriously_ letting you _stay_ with him? At his _house?_ Really?”

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, wondering whether Nancy and Robin would believe _his_ body had amnesia. “Uh, would he...lie about that?”

She steepled her fingers, eyes intent, and Steve fought the urge to laugh. “I don’t think so,” she decided. “But he’s dumb as rocks, _god.”_

Steve wanted to object, biting back a laugh, but she took a shaky breath, swallowing, and he bit his lips together to listen.

“And—um, it’s—probably good you don’t, uh. You—you better not try and—change your mind? He’s...he’s really pissed. At you. You should, um, you should get your stuff when he’s not home, he’s—he’s so angry,” she dropped her hands to her knees, swallowing. “It’s—you were right,” she whispered, in a strangled voice. “To—to tell him. Tell him _off._ But uh, just, just be careful.”

“His, um. My dad?” Steve asked, watching Max’s knuckles whiten, and her shoulders hunch. 

She nodded. 

“We’ll get you out too,” he promised impulsively. “You can’t stay there, we’ll figure something out—”

“This is so weird,” she cut him off, squinting into his face. “You—you’re _you,_ but you aren’t you, do—do you think you’ll come _back?_ Have you remembered _anything?”_

“Uh,” Steve said, and the door opened. Billy stuck Steve’s face inside, watching them. _I never look that innocent,_ Steve thought, annoyed. “Max figured out I have amnesia,” he said, and Billy stared for a long second, and yanked the door shut again.

“We need a plan to get your stuff,” said Max, and Steve wanted to hug her. 

“At least my sister’s cool,” he told her, grinning, and she stumbled to a halt mid-sentence, staring back at him. Her cheeks went so red her freckles faded.

“...shut up,” she mumbled. 

Before she left—she had to skateboard back and climb in the window, she explained, and it would have been funny, if she hadn’t kept setting her jaw, and flinching from sudden movements—Steve had her grab her _actual_ brother from the hallway, so they could tell him the plan. Billy sat on the edge of the hospital bed to listen, and Steve hauled Max against both of them in a hug that left both Hargroves tight-shouldered and red-faced, muttering thanks to each other.

“Thanks, Max,” Steve called, as she left, and she stared back for a second with a grimace, but threw him a salute.

“She’s a good kid,” he told Billy. “You could, y’know. Get her some water too.”

Billy snorted, leaned in, and kissed Steve’s face until he was too turned on to argue, then sighed. “Yeah, I’ll—I’ll think of—something. I don’t know. I didn’t think she’d...show up, like this. Horning in. Like she...I—yeah,” he groaned against Steve’s neck, and sighed.

Steve squirmed, wishing Billy would pick a topic and stay with it, because switching back and forth between “sibling relationships” and “touching Steve’s dick” was _distracting._ And kinda gross. 

When they released Steve-in-Billy’s-body, Billy was waiting to fill out the paperwork, wheel him out to the car, and help him into the house. It looked _lived-in,_ for once, Billy’s shoes in a pile by the door and a mess of homework on the table, and Steve turned back to the guest in his house—the guest in his body—and pushed him back against the door for a soft kiss. Billy’s smiles looked more uncertain in Steve’s body—or maybe they just _were_ more uncertain, away from the father that hated his guts, and the monster controlling him. 

_I love him,_ Steve thought, frowning, and wondered when he could know it was _real—_ they had to change back eventually, he thought, and what was he gonna say if he’d gone on one knee already, and all he could think about was boobs? He grimaced, and Billy blinked at him, still pinned against the wall. “I missed you,” he said instead, and Billy’s smirk widened again.

“I left for a _shower,_ dumbass,” he said, and Steve kissed him again, then nearly fell over, and Billy got an arm around him and dumped him on the couch. “Made your stupid cherry Jell-O,” he called over his shoulder, stalking off into the kitchen, and Steve’s brain spun wildly. _Maybe I just really love him,_ he thought, groaning into his sleeves and staring at the wall. _Maybe I’ll love him no matter what. Fight his dad for him. Fight his scary dad for the man who shows up for me. And brings me Jell-O.  
_

“What are you muttering about?” Billy asked, dropping next to him with a bowl of quivering red gelatin dessert, and Steve’s lungs shuddered. 

His sinuses stung with tears, and he realized he was about to start dripping—not just tears, but snot too, as an exclusive bonus. “You _made me cherry Jell-O,”_ he rasped out, trying not to sob, and Billy swore and ran off, returning to shove a roll of toilet paper into his hands.

“What the shit,” he hissed, shoving wads of toilet paper at Steve’s face. “What the hell, what the _fuck,_ Harrington, it’s _Jell-O—”_

“It’s _cherry,”_ Steve sobbed. “Your body _sucks,_ what the _shit,_ asshole—why am I _bawling over Jell-O—_ ”

“Makes me feel better about some things, actually,” Billy muttered, yanking Steve against his shoulder. 

* * *

Nancy knew Steve wasn’t _fine._ Steve Harrington wasn’t abrupt with his ex-girlfriend’s mom, or difficult for _Dustin Henderson_ to talk to—and he definitely didn’t ask Billy Hargrove to stay, acting _excited_ about it, like they were going to stay up doing each other’s hair. She stopped after work to pick Robin up—Robin griped the whole way about the ice cream you suddenly want, when you don’t work at an ice cream shop anymore—and they picked up Kentucky Fried Chicken, and gallons of strawberry, jamocha almond fudge, and mint chip. 

Robin dropped into the passenger seat and dug a spoon out of her purse, blew on it, squinted at it, and dug in to the mint chip. She met Nancy’s sputter with a flat stare.

Steve opened the door looking as stiff as he had ever since he’d had to use his car to nearly murder the boy lying on his couch, covered in bandages. “Y’know, he was going to _kill us,”_ she whispered, as they got plates out in the kitchen.

“Yeah, I noticed,” he said, his shoulders hunching.

“Everything—” She waved her hand at the front room, where Robin was still eating ice cream while she interrogated Billy. “Everything that’s going on, it’s—it’s not your _fault,_ Steve. You don’t have to keep helping him.”

He stopped to frown at her. “...I know that,” he said, unconvincingly.

“It’s not,” she hissed again. “It’s not your fault you had to plow into him—”

Steve coughed, biting his lips together, and she reached out to squeeze his shoulder. 

“It’s not your fault his car caught fire. It’s not your fault his dad is—is a _shitheel—”_

“Wait.” Steve flinched. “Wait, what—what did m—what did his _dad_ do?!”

“I heard about it from Max.” She dropped her voice to a bare whisper. “He showed up at Billy’s bedside in the hospital. He told Billy he—he wished Billy had died. But—” She cut off, yelling at herself internally as her lecture had exactly the _opposite_ effect she wanted, and Steve’s eyes filled with tears. He leaned back with a thud against the counter, and she didn’t know what to _do—_ it seemed stupid to _hug_ him, and she found herself shoving the fried chicken tub into his arms, babbling, “—but it’s okay, Steve, you’ll make sure he’s fine, right, he’s staying here, right, I didn’t know you were friends—” 

To her bewilderment, he elbowed away, half-running to the front room, and Billy.

“The hell is going on in here,” Robin said, poking her head around the corner.

“I’m terrible,” Nancy squeaked under her breath. “They’re friends?! I didn’t know they were friends, shit, I’m so sorry—” She followed Robin and Steve back out to the front room, kicking herself, but also trying to figure out what was even _happening,_ that Steve Harrington would start to _cry_ about it.

He’d gone to the door to the porch, where he was wiping his eyes and fumbling with the knob, and when he couldn’t get it to open—he was so upset he couldn’t figure out the lock, Nancy realized, digging her nails into her palms—he swung a fist at the door. 

Robin yelled, caught his arm, stalked close, and yanked the KFC bucket away. “The hell are you doing, moron, you’re gonna break your fingers—what’s _wrong—”_

Steve stiffened, and then snorted a laugh. “I ff—it’s—” He was trying _not_ to cry, which made it worse that he couldn’t _stop,_ and Nancy stepped closer, wondering whether it’d be more awkward to turn her back and give him some privacy, or shove a wad of paper towels in his face, when he started snickering wetly through his sobs. “I secretly cry all the time,” he whispered, and Robin visibly shuddered. “I do,” he told her, looking delighted. “Cry into my pillow! I’ve got _so many feelings—”_

“Does baby need some hugs,” Robin hissed back at him, and he laughed harder, with big tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“Baby needs a _pacifier,”_ Steve wheezed, as Nancy stared, but Robin just groaned, rolling her eyes, and threw her arms around him. It looked like half a hug, half a wrestling hold.

After what felt like minutes—and was probably seconds—of Steve’s muffled gasping, _Billy_ staggered up from under the blanket on the couch, steadying himself against the wall. “What the _hell,”_ he whispered, and Steve laughed harder. 

“Getting in touch with my feelings,” he said, sounding _smug,_ and Billy _growled_ at him. 

Nancy stepped closer between them, as Billy stomped up, angling himself between Robin and the door, and leaned to bump shoulders with Steve. She got herself wedged in the mix of awkward-leaning-that-wasn't-quite-a-group-hug, and had the sort of realization you have when you fight secret monsters with your friends—that she was always going to be close to these people, in a way she’d never be able to explain at parties. As soon as Steve could breathe again, he scrambled away from them—though he accepted the ice cream Robin shoved at him, eyeing her warily.

“Come on, you think I don’t remember which ice cream to get you? You think I’ve never seen you be a moron before?” she asked dryly, and he grinned, glancing at Billy, who was scowling back. 

After some extremely stiff chatting, though, he said he was going to go to sleep. Nancy did feel better, as Billy—of all people—ushered her and Robin out, whispering, “I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise. I—I owe him that.”

“Yeah, you sure as hell do,” Robin told him, and he laughed.

* * *

That night, they were finally _alone,_ after three days of getting interrupted by nurses, and people that said they were worried about Steve going home alone, but never argued when he said he was fine. Billy’d sat in the visitors’ chair after hours and scoffed, nudging Steve’s butt with one toe, and said, “Can’t leave you by yourself, dumbass, you’d cry.” 

He kept bringing it up, annoyingly. “You cry when I went home for a shower?” he whispered against Steve’s throat.

“I might, in this dumb body,” Steve told him finally, unbuttoning his shirt on his body, with Billy inside it. “You’re built like a sprinkler system.”

“Shut up.” Billy leaned in for a kiss, watching his face, and Steve laughed. 

“You even cry in _my_ body," he whispered, grinning into Billy’s kisses. “I bet you don't even want to change back—you won’t be able to make out with yourself.”

Billy choked, coughing. “...no,” he managed, his cheeks going even more red. “You _blush,_ asshole,” he gritted out. “I hate it—”

“Your _feet_ stumble,” Steve whispered back, running his knuckles up Billy’s side and watching him shiver. “No wonder you gotta think so damn hard about basketball.”

“Your _mouth_ stumbles,” Billy hissed. “I sound like a _fucking moron.”_

“God, I know.” Steve leaned in to kiss Billy’s collarbones, and Billy burst out laughing. 

“You into morons?”

“No!” Steve shot back, snickering, and slid his arms around Billy’s waist, tilting them so they fell facing each other on the bed. “No, it’s just. It sucks, being dumb.”

“Mmn,” Billy hummed consideringly against Steve’s shoulder, and burrowed his face in to kiss skin. “Worked out pretty good for me.”

“You’re not dumb,” Steve told him, fairly sure. 

“Some dumbass fell in love with my hot bod,” Billy told him, scooting up the bed to grab Steve by the back of the head and stare into his face. “Some moron. Pulled me out of a _burning car,_ this—this _idiot.”_

“Oh.” Steve tried not to wince. “Yeah. That.”

“‘Yeah, that,’ he says,” Billy parroted, and Steve stuck out his tongue. “You know…”

Steve waited, then raised his eyebrows. “My tongue being dumb, or you stuck?”

“You know it’s not your _fault,_ right,” Billy said thickly, swallowing. “None of this shit. And I’d rather be in your body than a monster in mine.”

“Hell _yeah,_ you would,” Steve snorted, his tongue for once faster than his brain. “Uh. Wait. What?”

“Nothing,” Billy said quickly, yanking Steve into a clumsy kiss. Steve gentled him with both hands, closing his eyes to imagine what Billy was _supposed_ to look like, instead of staring into his own eyes like he was licking a mirror. 

“I’m gay now, let’s fuck,” Steve whispered, and Billy breathed wrong, so they had to stop kissing for _several minutes_ while he hacked and choked, pounding his chest. 

“The hell is wrong with you, Harrington,” he whispered, but Steve was laughing too hard to answer.

Steve was starting to mark time in awakenings. Not _days—_ he was sleeping several times a day, and he had no idea what time it was, most of the time. He half-awakened, briefly, to notice his ass hurt, and let go of the warm bulk against him to pat at his own clean shaven face.

“Shit,” he mumbled. “Not gay anymore.”

“What,” came Billy’s voice. 

Not Billy’s-voice-through-Steve’s-vocal-cords, though that had a distinctive sound too, but Billy’s _normal_ voice, the one that followed Steve around at school, and threatened Lucas, and beat Steve’s face until he slurred on waking up. Steve’s spine tightened, and his heart started pounding. _It’s okay,_ he told his body, _Billy thinks I’m in love with him, and I like it. I let him think it was true._ He swallowed, rolling onto his back to take a deep breath.

“Harrington,” Billy said, and the bed shifted as he crawled to turn on the bedside lamp. “Harrington?”

“Shit,” Steve whispered, afraid to open his eyes. 

“We switched back,” Billy told him. “Harrington. Steve. C-c’mon.”

“I thought that might work,” Steve said, keeping his voice light, and wondering what kind of terrible person it would make him if he just kept his eyes closed, and kissed Billy Hargrove, and pretended everything was fine. _Maybe I don’t have to be gay,_ he thought wildly. _Maybe I can just want the person around, I can—we can be friends who jack each other off, it’s not dishonest, it’s not any_ more _dishonest—_

“Is that why you brought me home,” Billy whispered. “Just—you thought you’d—fuck me gone?”

“Shit, no, don’t go anywhere,” Steve choked out, rolling over to where Billy was sitting up, thudding his torso against Billy’s knees and wedge his face under one, smooshing his cheek and mouth against the bed.

“...what are you doing?” Billy asked, turning to lie cautiously alongside him. “Do—what do you _want,_ Harrington—”

“Don’t go away,” Steve told him, gathering him close with both arms and inhaling the smell of boy—deodorant, and aftershave, and cigarettes saturated into Billy’s hair. He smelled a little sweaty, and Steve felt himself drifting close to sleep again, in the contented haze he’d had in his hospital bed, using Billy’s bulk and warmth as a sedative. Billy’s heart was pounding, and he’d started to shake, so Steve took a deep breath and pulled back, opening his eyes. 

Billy’s eyes were red and watery, his lips red from biting, and Steve pulled him into a kiss without any thought. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered, running his fingers through hair that looked like it belonged in a metal band. “Sorry. I want you, of course I want you, you’re you, you’re Billy,” he rambled, and Billy leaned their foreheads together, taking shaky breaths. “Love you,” Steve told him, this time for sure. _Shut up,_ he told the voice in his head saying _you’ve been sort-of dating for three days._ It sounded suspiciously like Nancy. _I’ve known him like six months,_ he told it. _Shut up, I know what I’m doing._

“Jesus.” Billy swallowed, closing his eyes. “Scare the shit out of me, why don’t you.”

"Yelled at your dad for you," Steve told him. "I mean. Sorry. He pissed me off, talking like—talking about his kid like that. About you."

"What'd he say?" Billy asked, his voice husky, and Steve kissed his mouth, and his cheeks—they warmed as Billy smiled—and his teeth as he grinned. 

"He didn't say anything true," Steve whispered back. "Goddamn—goddamn asshole bullshit _liar."_

"You think so?"

"I know so," Steve hissed back. "You made me cherry Jell-O," he told Billy, thinking it hard at the doubtful voice that had been in the back of his head, telling him Billy wasn't lovable, and neither was he. "I mean," he tried to explain, over Billy's wheezes of laughter, "—that's not why—you just—you're Billy, and you l—you want me because I'm Steve, and—and he's _wrong,_ about you. E—everyone is. I was—I was _wrong_ about you, you—you're good, you're worth the bullshit—"

Billy yanked him close, squeezing him until his ribs creaked, and Billy swore. Steve froze, listening to him mutter. "God, fucking—it _hurts,_ ow. Shit. Don't set your car on fire, it hurts—"

"Careful, damn," Steve told him, running cautious fingers for the first time over Billy’s skin with him in it. 

Billy blew air through his cheeks, glancing down at his bandages. “Wanna go again?” he asked, and Steve kissed him, lingering to breathe against his mouth.

"I could be real gentle," he offered, and Billy nodded, squirming closer on the bed with a grin.

“They’re not too bad, mostly,” he whispered, “You got me out in time.”

"Yeah...but I'll be careful," Steve told him, as he slid his hand down Billy’s side again. 

“Yeah, sure,” Billy whispered back, grinning, and Steve laughed, stopping to concentrate on kissing him until he couldn’t breathe for panting.

Later that night, Steve awoke to go to the bathroom, found himself sporting a mustache and mullet again in the mirror, and groaned. “Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! XD** (I reply to each one, so if you don't want the attention, say *whisper* or "No reply, please!" I will go be extra-nice to my friends or turn my delighted feelings into more WRITING! =D)
> 
> Like my writing? =D Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003) Follow my writing progress and WIPs on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr at [Platypan the writer!](https://platypanthewriter.tumblr.com/) for updates on stories! Subscribe to the Harringrove without everything else at [Unrelated Harringrove Works Series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003)
> 
> Also, I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Talk to each other! Talk to me! =D Thank you, thank you for reading this far! Feel free to tell me these boys are dumb, I know, I know they are, it's not entirely their fault but I do agree. XD I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.


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